To love a dancer in a cold room

with one stuffed mattress and

strewn shoes, pumps, clothes, undergarments

and a high view of the harbor

through skylight water drops,

with silence and the muffle of traffic far below

and to lie there afterwards with your head

against the mattress against the floor against

all the next rooms in all the next buildings

and to feel all the perturbations of all the

adjuncted structures and that all these tiny

rumblings can be mingled and heard with yours,

would be a fine thing.

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